


His Angel

by be_the_trash



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Hearing Voices, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Schizophrenia, low-key though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 19:16:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be_the_trash/pseuds/be_the_trash
Summary: All he could hear was the screaming.





	His Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as me writing my feelings away, but it turned into this, which is still mostly just what I'm feeling. Enjoy.

All he could hear was the screaming.

It started when he woke up. His voices were silent, like they always were when when he first woke up, but this silence had been different. It stretched on.... almost too long.

Then suddenly, the screaming. Horrible, high pitched screaming. It was agony. Crying didn't do anything, pleading didn't do anything, bashing and clawing at his head until blood ran into his eyes and he was sure he wouldn't have any skin left without bruises didn't do anything.

He remembered the screaming just went on and on and on. Nothing else had mattered except getting rid of the screaming. He couldn't tell where he was anymore. Was he still in his bedroom, or had the screaming taken him somewhere else, somewhere even demons feared to be.

He remembered his throat had been ringing, his voice matching the screaming in his head until it gave out on him. The pain in his throat was a distraction, but too soon it faded.

He remembered wanting to curl in on himself until there was no more of him left. He sat there for hours, minutes, days, trying to claw his way out of the hole he had made, six feet in the ground.

He wasn't in control as he dug his nails into his temples, at least that's what he told the cops and the doctors and the shrinks at the hospital they sent him to. He wasn't in control. It was Blurry. It was Blurry, not him.

Blurry had broken the chairs. Blurry had bashed his head into the table and floor. Blurry had picked up the knife and tried to stab him before his neighbor had rushed in at the wrong time and stopped him.

His neighbor, with the bright yellow hair and wide eyes. With the face of an angel and the voice of his savoir, until Blurry had fought back.

Then his angels face was black and blue. But his angel had smiled at him in the hospital, as Tyler lay limp in his restraints, bandages convering from his head to his chest from "self inflicted" wounds. They weren't self inflicted. It was Blurry. It was Blurry.

But only his angel believed him. The judge, the jury, the doctors, the cops, the hospital, none of them believed him. The shipped him off. Off to the crazy house that no one escapes. The one where only the hopeless cases go. The only one that could hold him.

The only things he heard were his voices and Blurry, the only things he saw were images of his angels face. He wanted to see his angel again.

He asked about his angel. The doctors told him if he's good. Good. He almost laughed. Men like him couldn't _be_ good. Not with creatures like Blurry in their heads. Not when they hurt the ones with a halo and wings as soft and pure as snow.

  
...

  
What were the standards for good in a place like this? White walls, white halls, white beds in white rooms with white carpets and tables and floors. Except in the places stained with pink. They never tell us why but most of us know. At least I do.

I never talk to the others. They always tell us to make friends, apparently it will help. Help what? Will friends make the demon that no one else can see go away? No, but my angel would.

My guardian, my saint, my beloved that believed me when I told him. I'd only known him for a few month before I was dragged to the white place. He would visit me in the hospital everyday. He would joke and smile and pretend that I was normal.

I would cry when he left.

I missed my angel. Did he miss me? What did I need to do to see him again? He wouldn't tell me Blurry isn't real. He wouldn't feed me their lies. He would help me, he would save me.

  
...

  
The doctors say he's improving. When he asks about his angel they all look at each other. They ask what he means. He tells them, "My angel, my guardian angel with yellow hair like a halo and eyes that could cure any illness with their soft brown color and gentle nature."

The doctors don't respond. When he asks again, they say they will ask. Ask who? But they don't respond. They just hand him the pills they say take away Blurry but never do. He takes the pills. The doctors watch. Blurry nags.

They repeat this dance until Tyler is sure they are lying to him. They won't ask. They won't let Tyler see his angel.

He refused the next time they give him the brightly colored pills, the only color he gets to see now. They tell him he needs to, or Blurry won't go away. He calls them liars and they force the pills down his throat. The straightjacket that Tyler hated the moment they put it on him his first day, but was taken off when he was "good" is put back on.

Tyler wants to scream. He does and the doctors put a needle in his arm until everything goes black.

He takes the pills, but one is different. They say it will take away Blurry this time. It doesn't, but he lets them believe. He takes the pills. He takes the pills. The doctors remove the straightjacket.

He starts tucking the pills in the corner of his mouth and spitting them into his food. He doesn't eat food anymore, he won't until he sees his angel. The doctors try to make him and he screams again.

The voices join him.

He sees his angel in the halls. He begs and pleads for the man to help him, but he can never reach him before the doctors or guards bring needles to do the work they are too lazy to do themselves.

The doctors figured out his trick. They use the needles, the horrible, satanic needles instead of pills so Tyler can't escape. He doesn't see his angel around anymore.

They put him back in the straight jacket. Maybe it was the pills, maybe it was the man who tried to take his angels spot in the cafeteria. They told him if he wasn't careful they wouldn't take it off. Blurry laughed and Tyler spit in their faces and screamed.

Screaming was calming, but they never let him have his peace. They wouldn't let him scream. They wouldn't let him see his angel. They kept his arms locked in the same position for weeks. He refused to eat and his sleep was fitful. He rarely slept more than a few minutes.

The first time they tried to bathe him with the straightjacket, Tyler screamed and there was a new pink stain on the tile of the bathing room floor.

He wanted his angel. The doctors told him his angel wasn't real, but Tyler told them they were wrong. They gave him another needle.

He woke up later in his white room and saw yellow. His angel was sitting next to him and his straightjacket was loose. His angel smiled, got up, and walked out of the room. Tyler followed.

Tyler followed for a while. Twists and turns he didn't know existed. He got tired. His angel would look back and smile, and Tyler wouldn't be tired anymore.

They reached an empty room. His angel handed him his ukelele. Tears fell from eyes. His angel knew him so well.

He played for hours, sitting on the cold wet cement. He played until his fingers bled and he ran out of songs, then he played some more.

He kept playing when shouts and lights surrounded him and he kept playing as his angel vanished. He only stopped to pull out the knife. The plastic knife from the cafeteria. He didn't remember why he took it.

But he knew what he needed to do.

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't supposed to be heathens related but it was. Please comment any writing advice. I know it wasn't that great I wrote it in half an hour and didn't edit because I'm lazy.


End file.
